


Revenge

by chibisgotovalhalla



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Martyrdom, Violence, dark!Hvitserk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:35:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28713630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibisgotovalhalla/pseuds/chibisgotovalhalla
Summary: At the bosom of Aflred the Great, Hvitserk's plan to bring down the House of Wessex from the inside as a grand act of revenge is almost ready to be unleashed. In loveless marriage with a Saxon wife, and his true nature and identity waging war with his alter-ego Athelstan, the long months of dark despair fuel Hvitserk's drive for violence.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 12





	1. A Patient Man

**Author's Note:**

> The ending Hvitserk deserves.

I miss my brother.

It comes in waves that pitch and toss and roll over me. I’m a prone keel lost at sea. I am drowning in despair. Every morning I am washed new in darkness with his memory.

I lay on the straw mattress beneath blankets of opulence. The near bells toll, calling the faithful. They call me from the bed, away from the warmth of blood-stained memories. Away from longings and regrets. Of drinking in the great Norse hall of Kattegat after bitter battle victories. Of listening to the stories of gods and heroes sung from the belly of a skald in front of the High Seat. Memories of shieldmaidens and whores, of warriors and cowards.

Swords and axes.

Mud and death.

Blood, sweat and tears.

_The bells toll on_ …

She comes into the room clad and laden in expensive fabric. Jewellery that wasn’t mine to give her adorns her chest and wrists. Gifts from a king to me, his newest loyal servant. She veils her head because her God says it’s a sin to speak to him if she’s showing her hair. Which is dark, by the way. And waved. I see it at night when she lays next to me, unmoving.

_I might as well bed a statue_.

‘Athelstan,’ she says, though that is not my name. I want to scream every time I hear it.

_I am Hvitserk, son of Ragnar. I am a Viking. My nature is to raid and to kill_. I tell myself this every morning so I won’t lose the last part of myself to the scavenger of souls. I remind myself so I don’t give in to the black despair.

‘Athelstan.’

_I am Athelstan, beloved of King Alfred. Faithful in service to the English crown and devout to the Christ-god_. I tell myself this as a reminder of what I’ve lost, of what I will avenge. Of _who_ I will avenge.

‘The bells ring, Athelstan.’

_I am ignorant, not deaf_. ‘Yes. I am coming.’

I rise from the bed calling on every vestige of rage to help me put one foot in front of the other. I hold the anger in my chest as a place-marker for Ivar and Bjorn, and even Sigurd. I keep my father in there. And my mother. They occupy space with Thora and Margarethe. One day, I will unleash these names along with my rage. Alfred the Great will fall, along with his household and all those who think they are worthy to kiss his feet. Or his arse. I can never tell with these Saxons.

I remove the luxurious bed robe. As it slips off over my head I shrug out of my new personality. I am Hvitserk again. For as long as the brisk air touches my bare chest I am free of this place. But then I enrobe myself with the thick Saxon tunic and breeks. The weight of the cross falls around my neck, and I am slain again.

_Athelstan… Athelstan… I am Athelstan…_

She— Leofgifu, is her name. Alfred gave it to her when she married me. It means _Lovegift_ , because that’s what she was, a love-gift for swearing my loyalty to Alfred. She is my wife. Though you wouldn’t think it. She looks away, averts her eyes while I dress lest she sees something indecent. Sex to her is a great religious mystery. Fucking is obscene.

_If only I had the chance_.

My cock wakes me hard and throbbing every morning. She won’t yield to me, except for when she thinks her god will bless the union. Three times in half a year. As Athelstan I am forced into subordinance under this insane edict.

As Hvitserk, I want to fuck her deep until she splits open and the blood that runs out is purged of Jesus Christ. I have made sacrifices to the true gods in secret. I don’t want to father children with this woman. My legacy here with be destruction, not creation.

I braid back my hair which I still refuse to cut. The comb straightens the straggles of my long beard into the neatened disguise of Athelstan. The hair on my chin reminds me of father. And of Ubbe — of his baptism and escape from the cross.

Where is he now? Alive or dead?

I hook my arm and Leofgifu bows before me and hooks hers through it. We hurry through the Royal Villa and out into the courtyard. We join the end of the line of faithful as we all pile into the darkened chapel. Alfred awaits us near the altar. He beckons me like a crowned bride and we make our down the aisle. I am stood next to him again. I have his right hand — his trust and confidence. I am right where he wants me, but little does he realise that he is where I want him. This is a position of prestige — not even his guards can come near him in the Christ-temple.

‘Late to morning prayers again, Athelstan? I’ll be having words with your wife about keeping you up so late at night,’ he jests.

I grin. My expression says yes, we were up all night fucking like rabbits. Behind my eyes is a warning of betrayal.

The Bishop drones on about sin and eternal death. My mind wonders that way, also. Back to the battlefield, where I held Ivar in my arms and promised I’d keep his fear secret.

_I will keep your secret, brother. I will avenge your name_.

It is almost time. The Bishop talks about the feast of Christmas coming in days. From what I can understand it’ll happen around the time of Yule. It’s a happy time — a time of gift-giving and merriment. They will have their gifts from me. But they will not be merry.

In silence I promise this to Ivar, as the Bishop shoves a morsel of bread between my lips.

‘Amen,’ he says, glaring into my eyes, as if he knows what I’m planning.

‘Amen,’ I reply.

Of course, he doesn’t know my real plan. The one in which he dies first on Christmas morning before the Altar of his Lord.


	2. Ruthless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a Holy Sabbath dinner with Alfred, Hvitserk sees an opportunity and starts his revenge spree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter gets DARK!

On Sunnandæg it is illegal to work or travel between towns. It is the Holy Sabbath. After everyone goes home from the chapel the streets are empty. The only permitted reasons for leaving your home are to feed animals or seek help for the sick. Jesus Christ holds the country prisoner on Sundays.

Leofgifu clings to my arm as we cross the courtyard at evening. Alfred, the bastard, has summoned us to the Holy Sabbath feast yet again. It’s become commonplace, a weekly occurrence that I wish I could escape.

Two men with pikes and shiny steel helmets guard the door. They no longer ask me what I want. I have been accepted by Alfred’s militia. I kept my mouth shut and kept my head down. Now they don’t suspect me of anything more than living from Alfred’s pocket. They are fools.

The heavy oak doors open to the hall. The guards don’t make eye contact. Not that they could — I am half a foot taller than them and twice as broad through the shoulder. We pass through into the small corridor. Without drawing attention, I again spy out the branching corridors that run off in two directions, like spider legs. They go deep into the Royal Villa. Guards stand straight outside the important rooms. One wrong turn while making my escape and I’m dead.

I am dead on the inside, where Athelstan dwells among burning regrets. On the outside I am washed and dressed in Saxon finery.

The central doors to the hall open. One of the guards sizes me up, but this one doesn’t like me. He thinks Alfred should have killed me. I’ve heard him talking about it several times. He’s even jested about doing it himself. I will have my own back on him; his time will come.

All their times will come on a festive Christmas morning.

This is not a formal feast. It is closed to the court. The only people in here are Alfred, his dwindling family, and a few choice guests. Only two maids serve the table. It is already laden with food, and Alfred’s eyes shine from too much wine.

‘Athelstan, the man of the hour! There you are. Bring your wife, have a seat.’

Leofgifu and I both bow. She is the daughter of some lesser noble. Her being here in the King’s presence is something she never imagined. Being married to a man like me was also low on her priorities, but I’ve given her nothing to complain about. I have been the model Christian husband. She has tolerated me well. None of this is her fault. I plan on leaving her alive when I make my break.

‘My King. You lavish me with affection, but I don’t understand the context.’ I lead Leofgifu to the table and let her sit first.

‘Listen to him!’ Alfred boasts. ‘Has anyone heard such an intelligent man? Such words he speaks. It is our Lord’s precious gift to him.’

‘You flatter me, my lord,’ I growl through gritted teeth.

_Careful, Hvitserk. Don’t lose your temper now. Just a few more days… I can wait a few more days_.

‘Credit where credit is due,’ Alfred says and raises his glass.

His wife, Elsewith, is also gone with the wine. She is bleary-eyed and she is bold when she’s drunk. She's the first to raise her glass in suit of the king. ‘A good possession to have in our arsenal.’

I would like to punch her in the face. I smile.

The four other guests at the table — the commander of the forces, two important earls and a petty Ealdorman — raise their glasses. None of them are happy to see me. They don’t trust me. They don’t want me in Alfred’s close confidence. And nor should they. I am his doom awaiting my moment.

After the toast, Alfred explains what he means. He plans on raiding one of the other Saxon Kingdoms, East Anglia. He wants to use me to help them pull off a Viking-style raid, instead of a Saxon invasion. He thinks that way he can take them by surprise, using my knowledge of Norse strategy.

I am surprised by this. I thought he kept me around as show piece — a converted heathen to the Christian God by his own hand. One of the reasons he keeps me here is so I won’t go home and rally any loyal supporters. He wraps it in love and calls me his friend, lavishes me with gifts. But I can see right through him.

‘Of course. I will be happy to help you, my lord. It should be simple to plan.’

And plan it we do. After a round of applause, we feast and talk. We will hit in the spring, after the army has rested. We’ll go hard and fast, sending swordsmen in from both sides in a classic pincer-movement. And then there will be two banks of archers on horses, fire throwers and Frankish crossbows. Before I know it, I have orchestrated a pretty tight attack.

A maid comes in to inform Elsewith that their son, Edward, won’t settle and needs his mother. Alfred calls a break to the proceedings, and the men from the table stand to take a piss behind a curtain or in a ewer. The Saxons are like animals, they’ll piss anywhere.

When I stand, Leofgifu looks up at me. She is smiling, proud. I have never seen her smile at me before. I know why she does it — if I am on the war council we receive higher status. She’s tasted power and now she wants more. I’m amused. That is why I smile back.

The crying baby derails the feast. The earls and the Ealdorman leave, but Alfred asks us to stay. Once the baby is sleeping he wants to talk more, but right now he leaves to go to the chapel for his evening prayers.

There’s a moment’s relapse in activity. Leofgifu leaves to relieve herself. Baby Edward pisses himself so Elsewith places him in the crib while she goes to fetch the nurse maid.

We are alone together. It's just me and Alfred’s offspring, the only heir to all Wessex. He cries when his mother leaves the room. I stand by the crib and watch him squirm like a piglet. He looks up at me, our eyes meet and he shuts up.

_Rage…_ I am filled with it. I hate this child. He has brought Alfred so much hope and gladness when all Alfred has given me is despair. How dare he be happy! How dare he be so happy when he has taken so much away from me?

The faces of the dead pile up in front of me. I don’t have patience. I cannot wait any longer. Alfred owes me many lives and he will pay, starting with this one.

I stoop by the crib and pull the blanket from the child. He squirms and squeals again. His red cheeks swell and his small mouth opens to a tiny O. My massive hand covers his whole face, sealing his nose and mouth. Some muffled noises of distress escape my palm. Fat little arms wave bunched fists and little legs kick. His eyes widen in surprise as his head tosses. The child is a fighter, but he is not strong. I watch and grin as he suffocates.

‘What are you doing with my baby?’ Elsewith’s voice comes from behind and I let go of him. The infant cries but there is no evidence of harm on him.

‘I was settling him,’ I say as she strides across the room. The nurse maid follows. I hold up the blanket. ‘He threw this out of the crib. I was afraid he might get cold.’ My voice is soft, friendly. I hold out the blanket and she snatches it from me and lifts the child up to her chest.

‘He is beautiful,’ I offer. ‘You must be proud.’

Elsewith glares at me with suspicion. She says nothing, but turns and gives her son to the nurse maid who whisks him out of the room.

I see it now: I need to be more careful. I need to have more patience, if I am to bring down the entire house of Wessex. If I am going to succeed, I have to wait a little while longer.


	3. Fate Endlessly Chases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he has King Alfred's trust, Hvitserk works towards formulating his plan. But work in the war room and escorting his wife hinders him, and time before the Christmas feast is running out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on language:
> 
> I have used the word "draugr", the Old Norse word for "ghost", but I have also used the word "fetch" to mean the same thing. A fetch, based in Irish folklore, is a supernatural double or an apparition of a living person. The sighting of a fetch is regarded as an omen, usually for impending death.

I have been in the war room for three days straight. We talk about the attack on East Anglia over and over. It is frustrating and repetitive. I am going mad.

Not crazy like before, when I saw the burnt draugr of my beloved Thora everywhere I turned. I am driven mad by Alfred. He infuriates me. His very existence infuriates me! When he looks at me with a quasi-lust in his eye. When he says my name — Athelstan — in a dark whisper, like he’s commending his favourite brother to his almighty God…

I have to get out of here soon. I see Ivar everywhere. I hear his voice in my ear. The bastard haunts me. Maybe my true fate is that I can't be free of him.

At one point in my life, I thought my fate was to be greater than Ivar. Then I thought my fate was to kill him. But the more I sit in that room with King Alfred, the more I am convinced my fate is with Ivar. Hearing Alfred talk about how my brilliant mind will bring him victory is like a magic spell. His voice summons the fetch of Ivar who never leaves me.

I am fated to avenge Ivar. If I die in the process, I’ll be stuck with him in the afterlife. I think he'd like that, having me following him round for the rest of eternity. It would amuse him. He’s a prick even in death.

In this place I am isolated from everything that I know and understand. I crave Ivar more than anything. The familiarity of him. His mannerisms and his way of thinking. His snide comments and his exasperation.

There’s a hole here in my chest and I can’t fill it. That’s why I’m dreading this being over. When I’ve had my revenge, if I survive, I will have to find a new life. My brothers are all gone. I have no passage back to Norway. There is nothing and no one to go back to. My future is a void, an abyss, which I will fall into. It will be worse than all the other voids that have consumed me, because I know I won’t be able to fill it. I can’t use mushrooms or the poppy seed. I can’t drink myself into oblivion because I am afraid of losing Ivar.

How can I lose him when he is lost already? He’s embedded in my head. Every time I open my mouth at the war council, I hear his voice. It mocks me. He tells me that my plan isn’t good enough, that I’m an idiot. I see the look of disgust on his face when I mutter the words _yes my King… my Lord… I pray… Amen_ …

He calls me a fool, but I am his fool.

I lift the floorboard of the modest bedchamber I occupy with Leofgifu. Beneath it is an armoury I have amassed in the last six months. I am still not allowed to have weapons, even though I am now a part of Alfred’s inner circle. His guards won’t allow it. So I have to borrow and steal.

I keep some sharp things in here. There’s a small knife I stole from the sock of a sleeping guard. A razor-sharp double-edged spearhead I took from the smithy. There’s a seax-like knife and a couple of arrows that I managed to snatch. I also have a whetstone. I sit in the quiet moments, preparing my tools for employment.

Below the floorboard I’ve been stashing Saxon coin with Alfred’s face on them. There’s a few gems and trinkets he’s gifted me for good behaviour. These will serve for my escape. If I ever get home I’ll be able to buy several prominent farms with this amount of wealth. Or I’ll be buried with them in Winchester, if my escape is unsuccessful. I collect them together in a small velvet pouch I stole from Elsewith this morning. I can grab the small parcel when put my plan to action.

There is one other thing that Alfred has given me that I wish I could stuff beneath these floorboards: my wife. Ever since Alfred welcomed me to the war council and elevated our status as a couple, she has driven me insane.

Yes, another one of my insanities, _that woman!_ She’s suddenly become doting, overbearing. Wants to know where I’ve been, who I talked to, what I said. _Come with me here, come with me there_. And the worst part is, I have to go with her because the Christians don’t allow their women any freedom.

I am sick of browsing the market in my spare time. I am tired of hearing her prattle about fabrics and dresses and what she should wear to Elsewith’s next dinner. I need to be in my own head. I need peace to make my plan.

Time is running away from me. It’s easier to move around the Royal Villa now I’m a member of the war council. I have some excuse to be browsing the military parchments. Alfred had the priests teach me to read, and I know enough to work out how many fyrdmen will be in the Villa at Christmas. The majority will be sent home to feast with their families. The handful left behind still seems insurmountable by one man. But I am not planning a full-frontal attack.

When I strike, they will not see or hear me coming.

I sift through parchments searching for the names of the men guarding Alfred on Christmas morning. When I find them, I make a note. I am no fool. Reading and writing are two for a pair. Even the most educated priests learned how to write by copying the words they understood. I am cleverer than them. I dip the nib of the reed brush into the ink and scribble the names in my shaky script. The brush tip wobbles and scratches the parchment, but it's clear enough to read.

Now I have the names of the fyrdmen I can work on finding a way to make sure they are indisposed on Christmas morning. It seems you can buy anything with enough coins from the merchants. They keep their bothies and stalls outside the walls of the Villa. They look like upstanding pedlars and tradesmen. But I have seen the corruption that happens behind the guards backs. I’ll figure something out.

The Saxons work out their dates from their Christian feasts. I don’t know them well enough to judge the passing days. I know they celebrated the feast of Saint Beornwald the day after the feast of Saint Winnibald. By my reckoning Beornwald’s day was the eve of the Yule festival. It began snowing yesterday. I know from the invasion of the Great Army that it usually begins snowing in England after Yule. The weather is not cold enough before that day.

‘Wife,’ I demand in bed that night. I hate speaking to her like a possession, not using her name. But this is life in the Christian lands.

‘Yes, my Lord Husband?’

I roll my eyes. ‘How long until the Feast of Christ’s Mass?’

There’s a short silent pause as Leofgifu turns on to her side so she can see me in the dim light of the oil lanterns. ‘You look forward to the celebration of our Lord’s birth?’

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t reveal _how_ much I look forward to it. ‘Yes, of course. My first one.’

She does not detect the sarcasm in my voice. ‘It is two days away.’

‘Two days?’ my voice jumps in pitch and I almost give myself away.

‘Yes. You must be excited. I hear it in your voice.’

I swallow hard. ‘Well, I love to feast.’

‘Gluttony is—’

‘A sin, I know. But if it is done in reverence of Jesus Christ, then doesn’t it become a sacrament?’

Leofgifu is silent for a moment. ‘Saint Paul says that women should not teach men the ways of the Lord. But a man must seek out teaching from a respected brother in Christ.’

_Fuck Saint Paul_.

I snigger. ‘Then I will find one and ask him.’

‘Queen Elsewith spoke of you tonight.’

I stiffen. She does not like me and I do not blame her. I tried to bring death to her firstborn. ‘What did she say?’

‘She said you were chivalrous in the act of trying to calm her son, Edward. She said you picked up his blanket because you were afraid he would get cold.’

I lick my lips and take a couple of breaths. Leofgifu must not see my unease. So Elsewith did not find out the truth. ‘Well, I could hardly leave the Crown Prince of Wessex to perish.’

My brow creases and she mistakes my ill conscience for modesty.

‘Queen Elsewith says it was a broad show of fatherhood from a man who will one day father many great sons.’

I swallow hard. ‘One day.’

That day never comes.

Leofgifu rests her head on my shoulder and I resist the urge to push her away. She closes her eyes to sleep while I am consumed with memories. I think about Thora and our plan to start a family. A large family, sons and daughters. I remember the hole in my heart that she left when she died. Another unfillable cavity.

_I just want someone to love_ _._ The words I spoke to Gunnhild come flooding back and I realise that the sentiment is as true now as it ever was. I have a wife but we are not fated to last longer than two more days. Whether I die making my escape from here or not, I know that I will never have the opportunity of fatherhood. Not here, not anywhere. It is not my fate to be happy.


	4. Gifu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk's preparations for the Christmas feast tomorrow are complete. But will Leofgifu's revelation get in his way?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gifu - Saxon word for 'gift'.  
> Fetch - a ghost/spirit.

The merchant is a wraith of a man. Short and grimy, typical Saxon townsman. I don't know why my nose creases at the stench of him. In the last half-year I've bathed three times.  
The Saxons bathe only when their god deems it necessary. They think disease enters the skin through bathing and if the act isn't blessed by God they will die.  
I won't cut my hair. I refused Alfred's attempts to shore me of my heathen locks as the Bishop put it. Now I see why the Saxon men wear it cut to their collar. The grease slicks through my scalp and has worked its way through my braids. They hang limp. The ends are like a bundle of rats' tails and it stinks.  
My skin is the same way. When I touch my nose and brow my hand gets coated in shimmery grease. Now I don't use it as often as I used to, the lye soap burns my skin.  
I hate being filthy. The first thing I will do if I get out of here alive is strip off in the river and scrub my skin until it bleeds.  
I take the scrap of parchment from my pouch. The merchant can't read, so I tell him the names of the guards assigned to Alfred tomorrow morning. Christmas morning.  
'You are sure you can get into the guards' dormitory?' I ask, not sure I trust him.  
'Oh, yes.' He turns and pats the barrel. 'They permit me entry at dusk every night. One barrel of small ale keeps the guards going until the next day.'  
'And you will make sure my barrel gets to them? No questions asked.'  
'If it's what you pay for, lad,' the merchant says. 'Be aware their eyes are everywhere. Even on us right now.'  
I don't .turn around. I know that Alfred's guards have followed me out to the market. They always do. They are on me like hounds. This is why the barrel he touched a moment ago is not that barrel that will make it into the guards' dormitory.  
The real barrel is on a cart waiting by one of the side gates into the courtyard. The merchant thinks it contains strong ale instead of the weak stuff. That it's a gift from me for a good night of cheer.  
It does contain strong ale. But it's laced with enough hemlock to take out a herd of cows. The only thing they'll be guarding tomorrow is their own graves.  
'The boat?' I ask.  
'Will be where the river bend meets the rocks by mid-morn.'  
I nod, take a small velvet pouch he hands me and slip the merchant a coin. It's gold and bares the face of Alfred on it. The equivalent of two years earnings. To me it is worth nothing. One in a score given to me by a cocksure king who wants me supplicated.  
To the merchant, I say thank you for the gift for my wife. Loud, so the guards across the way can hear. And then I move on to other stalls. I throw around Alfred's wealth. I buy dried plums and baskets of nuts. A silk head scarf and a brooch in the shape of a running stag. They won't be able to prove that I was here for any other reason than buying gifts for my wife.  
Inside the pouch is a knife blade without a handle. It's one final weapon for my arsenal.  
There's much merriment on the eve of Christ's mass, but also solemnity. The feasting hall divides in two. Alfred and his high ranking nobles enjoy the chance to sup ale and glut themselves. While the women prepare for tomorrow's religious duties with silent stoicism.  
For once in my life I refrain from drinking. My plan is to sleep as little as possible tonight and rise while it's still dark tomorrow.  
I look around the feasting hall. I have been amongst these people long enough that I know them like brothers. I know the secrets of the earls. I pat the heads of their sons and bow before their daughters. They share stories with me and I pretend to care.  
Across the room, Alfred raises a gem encrusted cup and grins. 'May God bless your good health, Athelstan,' he says. I raise mine and match his smile. Alfred moves on to the next man. My answer comes wordless. It is not a blessing but a curse.  
I curse Alfred and his household to death. I invoke rune poems in my mind. Little things I remember from Floki that no man should chant over another's life.  
I curse his wife and his child. I curse the loins he was borne from. I even curse the priest's seed that planted him in his mother's womb. Athelstan, the real Athelstan. Everything that has ever happened to me is Athelstan's fault. My father's conversion and long absence. Alfred's birth. His determination to convert my people. Ivar's death.  
Ivar.  
He growls in my ear, an invisible fetch that never goes away.  
'To health and merriment. And to blessings from our Lord!' Alfred declares when the night is over.  
Leofgifu is glad when I refuse the invite to Alfred's inner chamber for a final evening drink. She has been eager to return to our own small chamber. Her expression has been downcast all night. On the eve of her Lord's feast, I have watched her take one bite. I wonder if she is capable of enjoying herself at all.  
Once our chamber door is closed, I take the bundle from my chest and lay it on the bed. 'Wife, I have gifts for you.'  
She opens the bundle with eager fingers while sitting on the bed. She pulls out the scarf and brooch. Inspects them and then folds the fabric. She cradles it to her heart.  
'I thank you, my lord husband. For all the gifts you bestow upon me.'  
I nod. 'May the blessing of God be on you, wife,' I say through gritted teeth.  
Rite and ritual... No act, not even gift-giving, is without circumstance for the Saxons.  
She puts the gifts on the bed and rises. I turn to undress, unlacing my tunic and pulling it over my head. Taking off Athelstan and becoming Hvitserk. As the wool slides down my arms, her hand on my bare back, cool and small, startles me and I spin.  
Leofgifu flinches and snatches back her hand. In all the time we have been married I have felt her hands on my body three times. I am not used to her touch and I glare at her.  
She is dainty before me. Small and watery-eyed. 'Husband, I have something to confess.'  
I throw the tunic down on top of my chest. I stand with my knuckles on my hips. I say nothing, but my eyes probe her face.  
'Forgive me for being forward, my lord husband. But I have news. The Lord has blessed our union.'  
My head is full of tomorrow and I don't understand what she's saying. 'What do you mean?'  
She swallows hard and then smiles up at me. This is the first time she has ever smiled at me. There is a look of love in her eyes that I have always sworn to distance myself from. 'The Lord has blessed us well, for I carry your child within me. My husband, are you happy?'  
There is a long silence, during which my heart breaks audible thud. It's a small dull sound, like an arrow hitting a shield. I am weak and my knees fold beneath me.  
Leofgifu dives forward and I collapse on top of her. For all my weight she cannot bare me and drops me down on to the bed. I am stunned. I stare up at the ceiling with unfocussing eyes. My breath stops for what feels like a long time before my chest shudders again. I gasp for breath, winded as though I have taken a punch.  
'Husband? Husband! I will fetch a priest to pray for your soul.'  
My hand shoots out and I grab her wrist. 'No,' I say breathless. I am unable to pull myself up off the bed. My eyes fix high above as I lay slain still by her words.  
I tug on her arm and she falls on top of me. I pull her on to my naked chest and I hold her there. Her tears flood my skin as she wriggles to look up at me.  
'My lord husband, are you stricken?'  
I cannot answer right away. I shake my head and sit up to kiss her forehead.  
'No. Not stricken. Only happy.'


	5. Resolve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk puts his plan into action after enlisting the help of Ivar's fetch (ghost).

My heart beats away the dark hours. Leofgifu rests her head on my shoulder, shrouded in blankets to fend off the cold. I do not sleep. The news that she's with child eats at me.

Why now, Odin? Why now, Norns, do you weave this web for me? How could it happen in the final hour before my revenge?

The gods are cruel. The offer scraps of happiness while snatching the plate from under my nose. For every eventuality I have imagined, the one thing I did not expect to get in the way of my plans was this.

How am I to proceed? On the one hand, I could go ahead as planned, slaughter Alfred and his family, make my escape. I could leave Leofgifu behind. The Christians won't kill her. She's done nothing wrong. But they might destroy the child when it's born. I know the gods won't let me become a father, but if I ever had a child, I'd do all I could to protect it.

Or I could take Leofgifu now and go. She would not want to go with me, I am sure of that. Not surprising, since she's dense enough not to suspect me even though she lies in my bed every night. I don't know how I'd get her out. The guards will rise soon, and when Alfred's fyrd is not at his bedside, they will see what I've done. They will suspect me without question.

I have plenty of practice wresting my arm from beneath sleeping women. Leofgifu doesn't disturb as I slip from the bed. I don't change out of my bedclothes, but I do slip on my boots.

The corridors are dim. A few lard tapers pepper the floorboards with enough light for me to gauge where my feet fall. I creep through the villa like an assassin, avoiding the open doors where the night guards talk. It is still dark when I emerge into the courtyard. A few sparse flakes of snow fall, the kind of pathetic flurry expected in the south of England. The chill air does nothing to clear my mind.

Bishop Cynwulf sleeps still. I peer through a gap in boarding. There's a single candle near his bed that paints his flabby jowls in orange blooms. His mouth hangs open, his nose scrunches as if he knows I'm there, watching him.

I pass his quarters and enter the chapel. The door gives with a quiet creak. There's still an hour or so until morning prayers, and the place is empty, silent and pitchy. I sit in the darkness and summon him into my mind.

'You bastard,' I say, picturing Ivar sitting on the wooden stool, opposite me. He turns as if he's been there all along. He rears up on his haunches with a devilish glint in his eye.

'My dear brother,' he says, malice in his voice. 'You thought you could leave me, didn't you?'

'How can I leave you when everywhere I turn, I see you there?' I reply.

'Woof woof.'

'I am not your dog now, and I never have been. My days of following you are over.'

'Are they? You say this, Hvitserk, and yet you call me up from my sleep, and you haunt me.'

'No, brother,' I snarl. 'You haunt me.'

Ivar sniggers. 'Perhaps we haunt each other, hmm?'

'Perhaps. I didn't expect to get rid of you, even after death.'

'Death is an illusion. Do our sagas not tell us that if we talk about the dead often, and we remember them, then we keep them alive, if only in memory?'

I shake my head. 'That's what they say. You are alive and well enough in my mind.'

'Then there we have it.' I imagine Ivar shrugging, smirking at me from under dark lashes. Of course, he isn't really there. I conjure him without mushrooms or magic.

I grab a stool and sit next to my brother's fetch. He's bigger than I remember him. Broader through the shoulder and rougher-looking. And yet, he manages his pristine facade. His hair is neat and braided; he's clean and wearing fresh clothes, the baggy kind we wore in Rus-land. One thing that strikes me as odd: he doesn't have his crutch, nor are his legs strapped. But then I think about the stories of warriors who enter Valhalla being whole and robust. This is the picture of Ivar I choose to believe.

'What will you do, then, now your Saxon bitch is with child?' Ivar looks amused, but I expect nothing less from him.

'I don't know.' I breathe out a rush of air, resting my elbows on my knees. My back arches as I hang my head. 'Give me options.'

'Even in death, I am running your life.'

'Yes, and it's annoying me. What would you do?'

'Perhaps I am not the right man to ask. My son will be in Novgorod if he lives at all. Who knows what has become of him?'

I shake my head. 'You still believe that Katia was pregnant?'

'I don't know what to believe. I would find out, but I'm too busy haunting you.'

Part of me wants to rest my head on Ivar's shoulder, close my eyes and let the world melt away. But he is not real, and I cannot touch him.

'Don't do what I did,' Ivar says sharply. I look up, and his grey eyes are dull.

'What?'

'Don't leave your child. Katia didn't want me, but I could have stayed; I could have seen him at least once after he was born.'

'I have no choice,' I reply, stunned. 'I have already set things in motion.'

'Then take her with you. If you do not, you will regret it, Hvitserk, and it will become just another thing that haunts you.'

I hate it when Ivar is right. If I don't take Leofgifu, the loss of my child will haunt me. 'How do I get her out? There's such little time until the city awakes for the Christ feast.'

'Be a man. You are a Viking; take her by force!'

My teeth toy with the inside of my cheek as I think. I need the little stab of pain to keep me connected to reality.

'Where will we go?'

'Are you afraid? Be a man. That cross you wear is making you soft.'

I look up at Ivar, and his face is fierce. Nodding, I reach up and tear it from my neck. The leather cord snaps, grazing my skin with fierce defiance. 'I am not him.'

'You are not.'

'I am Hvitserk, son of Ragnar.'

'You are a killer. Go and kill.'

I stand and leave Ivar before he can leave me. He remains on his stool, laughing like a madman as I leave the chapel. He is right; I am a killer. In the eyes of the Saxons, I am Pagan filth. They've been expecting this of me. At least the guards expect it.

I stop at Bishop Cynwulf’s quarters. The door is not locked, so the lay priests can enter at night. They tend his candle and provide meat and ale for when he awakes. This will be the last morning that he wakes.

The door opens with a flick of the latch. The old man lies on his back with his mouth hanging open. Raspy oinks fill the air as he snores like a swine. I look around for a knife and find one on the platter the lay priest has laid out for him. I slap him roughly around the face, and he startles awake. His jowls wobble as he splutters. 'What in the name of God?'

I slap him again, then pin him to the bed by his throat. Taking the gold cross I pulled from my neck in the chapel, I shake it from its cord one-handed while he feebly smacks at me. I press down harder on his throat until his mouth opens wide for air and stuff the cross in there. As I push his mouth shut, I tell him who I am.

'My name is Hvitserk, son of Ragnar. I don't want your salvation, your absolution, and you will find none by my hand because I damn you to your hell.'

Holding the handle of the flat knife, I plunge it into his throat and drag it along his windpipe. The blade is not sharp. It snags, so I saw at his neck until the gaping wound hangs open like a fish mouth.

'In God's name, what are you doing?'

My head whips around. A young lay priest stands in the doorway, shock ringing his mouth into a perfect O.

'Get away from Bishop Cynwulf!' he pleads.

'Don't worry about the Bishop,' I say, leaving the old man blowing bubbles of blood from his nose and mouth.

The boy attempts to run, but I grab his sleeve and swing him into the small chamber. He crashes into a table, winded from the blow, which gives me enough time to grab a heavy candlestick and brain him. Three... four times I strike him. The bone fragments under the impact. Blood and thick, grey globs ooze from the wound on the side of his head.

I shut the door behind me. The bodies must stay hidden long enough for me to get Leofgifu out. She must leave for the safety of my child, but I must remain. I am not a coward, and I must finish what I have started.

Across the courtyard, a young servant opens the door to the dormitory where the guards sleep. He enters before I can stop him. As I watch from the shadows, the boy staggers back out of the door, screaming. He heads inside to raise the alarm. I have to get in there and get her out now. I am out of time.


	6. Barter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hvitserk barters for his life as he escapes Alfred's Villa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give you two chapters today, but this one turned out to be really long and took a bit of editing, so just one for today. I hope you enjoy it!

Leofgifu grips my tunic with a man's strength. She pushes me, slaps at me. 'How could you, my lord husband, be so cruel?' She flinches as I reach out and place a finger to her lips, quieted and placated like a child. She trembles beneath my touch, even though my hand is light. Her eyes close in fear, and a single tear streaks her cheek.

'Hey,' I say, dispensing with all Christian formality. 'I swear to my gods and yours that I won't hurt you. You're carrying my child, woman. I have to take you away from here now.'

My wife opens her eyes. 'If I leave with you, God will surely punish us both for your sins. You murdered not one man but a whole garrison of King Alfred's prized guards. When they find you.' Her eyes screw shut again. 'When they find you, they will kill you most horribly. I fear for what they will do to me.'

I cup her small face in both of my large hands. I have always thought of her as delicate, even weak. Now she feels breakable; my admission has fractured her in unspeakable ways.

'They will not harm you if we leave now. Most of the household still sleeps. We can be away - far away - by noon if you listen to me. I have a plan, but it will only work if I have your full co-operation.'

Leofgifu nods and wipes the tears from her cheeks. Her hands run down her dress and rest on the flat plain where my child grows. 'You are my husband. I will do what you command of me, and may God have mercy on my soul.' She makes the sign of the cross over herself, her commitment to my cause solidified in her heart.

I kiss her forehead, cross the room and rip up the floorboard. I pull out all my emergency supplies, slipping the knife and spearhead into my belt. I throw the velvet pouch of coin and gems into a larger travel sack. I toss in a few apples, fire steel and flint, and few other necessary objects.

On the day I took my baptism, one of the young monks gave me one of their brown hooded robes. He said he hoped one day I would join him in the cloister. I tossed it at the bottom of a chest and never took it out again. I never saw how it would come in useful unless I needed to rip at the wool for bandages. Now I finally have a use for it.

I turn with the robe in hand. Leofgifu tenderly folds the scarf I gave her last night, and she adds it to the travel bag. I realise the square of silk and the brooch is all she has. When I married her, she came with no dowry but the clothes on her back. Since our marriage, I have given her a few arbitrary pieces of jewellery yet still owns nothing. Apart from the scarf, she has nothing to cling to. No weapons, no trappings of wife, like cooking utensils or a weaving loom. What evidence is there of her existence apart from that scarf?

I have to stop myself from holding her. There's no time for such shows of affection. Later, maybe, if I live to see her again. I hook the travel bag over her shoulder and wrap her in the monk's robe.

'This is sacrilege,' she protests.

I kiss her forehead and shroud her in the hood. 'Behind the chapel, there's a gate in the wall. It leads down to the river where the monks wash. Follow it to the river bend. When you find a boat, go into the woods and hide. Wait for me. If I am not there by nightfall, run. Go as far as you can away from here.'

She shakes her head. The tears flow again. 'No, I can't do this without you. I haven't the courage.'

I kiss her once more. 'You have to. I will cause a distraction. Go, quick, and stop for no one. Be silent like the monks are. Do not raise any suspicion.'

Taking her by the arm, I lead her out into the corridor. No one will dare stop a monk on his way to do his sacred duty on Christmas morning. I can only hope she uses her brains, keeps her head down, and does as I say.

She falters outside the room, looking up at me like a lost child. 'Go!' I bark, and she scuttles off without a backward glance.

In my heart, I am terrified for her and for my child, but there is nothing I can do. If I die and Leofgifu lives to bring my child into the world, then I will have succeeded at something.

Outside, I can already hear the commotion. The bells ring, raising the alarm. I head in the opposite direction, towards Alfred's private chambers. I weave my way through the corridors, deeper into the Villa. When peer around a corner, Alfred's guards stand to attention as boots approach them.

'Move! I must wake the King,' demands a familiar voice. The garrison captain is a short, bald man who has wanted my head on a pike since he first clapped eyes on me. I pull the knife from my belt and head through a door.

The service corridor winds behind Alfred's chambers. The are several small rooms down here that have direct access via a backdoor to the royal family. Baby Edward's wetnurse is one such employee who resides down here. I slip into the room of the servant, an older man who dresses Alfred in the morning. He rises from his place of prayer in protest, and I stab the spearhead into his throat. He doesn't die right away but writhes on the floor in a pool of his own blood, unable to make noise. I push the door closed, leaving a gap big enough to peer out into the gloom.

From my vantage point behind Alfred's chambers, I hear the inevitable debate.

'Who would do such a thing on the morning of the Lord's feast?'

'My King, I think we all know-'

'Do not blame Athelstan. He has proven himself trustworthy. He sits on my war council.'

'But my King, we found his chambers empty. He and his wife are both gone.'

'No. I refuse to believe it. How would Athelstan's wife be involved in this?'

'In any case, my King, I have ordered a search. If they are innocent, I'm sure we will discover it. May I call you to council now, my Lord?'

'Damn it all! Elsewith, take Edward and your maids out of the way. Two guards will remain in here to watch my family.'

Heavy boots stamp out of the room. The chambers' rear door opens with a creak into the back corridor, and soft footsteps approach the room opposite. Queen Elsewith clutches her child to her chest as she bursts in on the sleeping wetnurse.

Before she hears me emerge from the other room, I give her a sharp shove in the back, forcing her into the room, slamming the door behind me.

Both women shriek, but when I pull the knife from my belt, they fall silent. Self-preservation dictates that if they scream to alert the guards, I will kill them all. Elsewith holds the child close, bouncing and shushing him on the spot. She doesn't only hold her son. The future of Wessex is in her hands.

I have waited a long time for this. Alfred took away from me all I had left. Now, in this room, I hold everything important to him. I have every means of making him suffer.

Beckoning the wetnurse to me, I try to smile, but it's more a grin. 'Come here.' She doesn't move from the small cot bed where she's sat. 'Come here if you want them to live,' I demand.

The girl looks up to her mistress, who nods. She slowly approaches to within fingertip's reach, as if stepping towards a deadly snake. She isn't wrong. As soon as my hand grasps her thing apron, I cut her throat.

Elsewith shrieks and turns away, shielding her son from the sight of the girl who falls gasping to the floor. Her dull eyes stare upwards.

I stalk towards the Queen and her infant. Sensing me behind her, she half-turns, keeping the boy from my view.

'Why did you do that?' she says in a small voice.

'She's unnecessary. If I left her here, she'd run off and find the guards. One less body to keep track of.'

'One more soul to weigh against you when God Almighty casts you into Hell,' she spits.

'I've already made my peace with that. Give me the child.'

'No. I know what you did that night. You were trying to hurt him, weren't you?'

'If I say yes, will it change things?'

She shakes her head. 'What now?'

'You're going to help me get out of here. Alfred won't stop me if I have you and my son in my possession. Give me the boy.'

'No!'

I take another step and reach around her. My hand crowns Edward's head and strokes softly. I need to keep them both calm. The child hasn't picked up on his mother's tension. Baby Edward sucks on his fist; I suppose he's hungry.

'Give the boy to me, and I will hurt neither of you. If you don't, I'll kill you both now.'

The mother believes me. Elsewith turns and reluctantly offers me the infant. I take him with all care because right now, I need both of them alive. He looks up at me with large bright, confused eyes as I hold him to my chest. He weighs nothing even though I have him on my left side with my weaker arm.

I brandish the knife beneath Elsewith's chin. 'Lead the way back to your chambers. Do nothing to alert the guards within. If you do, your child dies.'

She inches past me with caution and heads for the door. I follow. Elsewith turns her head every few steps, looking back at her son. It seems to take a lifetime to reach the royal chambers. When the Queen enters without the child in hand, the two guards think nothing of it. They stand a little straighter, expecting the wetnurse to follow behind. When I emerge behind the Queen, they raise their weapons, pausing mid-step when they see I have the child.

'I will kill them both,' I say.

The guards exchange a do-or-die glance, and without a word, they charge towards me. It's a commendable act, defending their Queen without question.

With the knife hilt, I hit Elsewith over the back of the head, and she staggers out of the way. She squeals when she sees me do battle with two men while holding her son under one arm like a shield.

My long leg kicks the one guard to the floor. I duck under an overhand sword strike from the second. He trips past me as I stick out my foot. The one on the floor grabs my trousered leg, but his grasp is all wrong. I pull it free with ease and stamp on his face. The resulting snap and river of blood from his broken nose puts him out of action.

The other one rounds on me again. He swipes at my chest with the sword, narrowly missing my right side.

'Do you have no regard for Crown Prince of Wessex?' I chortle.

The guard falters. He gawps open-mouthed between the infant and me, as if only just realising who the baby is. This momentary pause gives me enough leeway to kick the guard in the groin. He falls in a heap of pain, dropping his sword, which I'm quick to scoop up.

I finish off both guards with a rapid thrust, each in the chest. They bleed out, no longer a threat.

The infant in my arms is unsettled by all the jostling. I rock him as I walk back to his mother, pressing my lips to his brow until he stops wriggling and lays his head against my chest.

Elsewith reaches out for the boy with both hands.

'No,' I tell her. 'To the war room. Now.'

She leads the way in the same manner as before, looking over her shoulder every few steps. She moves far too slowly. Unlike before, we are no longer in a small back corridor but in one of the Villa's main passages. I warn her to speed up before we're discovered. She takes heed when I hold the sword tip near the child's face.

I expect to see the war room guarded, but its doors are open, and the sounds of earnest conversation roll out. Elsewith pauses outside the door, turning to me for instruction. I nod, and she heads inside.

I have no fear of Valhalla now. I've gotten to him; I'm inside his most guarded place with his wife and son in my possession. I have the upper hand. I follow her inside the war room, sure-footed.

Alfred and six of his advisors look up from where they're bent around a table talking tactics. My name is uttered by several of them. Alfred leaves the fold and storms towards me.

'If you're holding my child, it had better be because you have rescued my family from the assailant that scourges this Villa.'

'No, Alfred,' I say in hushed tones, wrapping my arm around Elsewith and holding the edge of the sword to her throat.

Alfred stops. The entire room is silent, and no one dares move, not even the garrison captain who is full armour by now.

'What are you doing, Athelstan? Unhand them!' he spits, betrayal in his voice.

'No. You took my brother from me, you took my name, and you prevented me from going back to where I belong. He was all I had left. My identity was all that remained of who I was, and you stripped it from me!' I bellow. 'All of it stripped from me. There are no words for the hurt you've caused me. I'm going to make you pay.'

Part of me says it would hurt him more if I took his wife and made her suffer. But even presented with his wife's subjugation, his eyes remain firmly on his heir. The Christian mindset - a woman can be replaced, but sons are worth more than gold. If I took her with me, I'd have no way of controlling her.

Elsewith's hands bleed as she grips the blade in an attempt to prevent me from slicing her throat. The sword cuts through her hands and her windpipe like a knife through butter. After cutting her throat, I give her a little shove in Alfred's direction. He catches her, going down one knee as he folds to the ground.

'My love? No, no. Elsewith.' His bed robed soaks in her blood, turning it from a bright yellow to a rich red as he cradles her. 'You demon! I trusted you. Put down my son at once or-'

'Or what?' I say, threatening the infant with my blade like I did earlier.

The six men in the room have all drawn a weapon and stalk up behind Alfred. If I kill the child now, I'll have nothing to barter with. Even if I kill Alfred, these men will remain loyal to the English crown and the Christian cross. They will kill me, regardless.

All my thoughts are for Leofgifu and our unborn child.

'Get me a horse,' I say. 'Get me a horse, and I won't harm your son.'

Alfred, crippled already by the dead woman in his arms, nods. 'Do as he says.'

One man storms past me, another stoops next to the King for instructions.

'Do everything he says. My son must live.' Alfred climbs to his feet and slowly approaches me. He holds out his arms for the child, but I back towards the door.

'I want passage out of here. Order you men to stand down.'

He looks to the men around him and issues the order. 'Athelstan, give me my son,' he says, following at an equal pace.

'That is not my name!' I bellow, and the child in my arms begins to cry. I have no designs on soothing him. I hold him up in front of me, part-shield and part-ransom for my escape. 'My name is Hvitserk, son on Ragnar. And I swear to you I will have revenge for what you did to my brother.'

'I did nothing,' Alfred affirms. 'I did not kill him. He was a casualty of war.'

'But you wanted to,' I said. 'Ivar was nothing but a terrorist to you. You would have done it yourself if you could.'

'He would have done the same to me,' Alfred said, clutching at straws as we inch down the corridor towards the door. Guards appear from every direction, but Alfred holds them off with his hand.

'No. Ivar wouldn't have done the same.'

'He wouldn't have killed me if he'd had the chance?'

'Oh, he would. But it wouldn't have been a quick Christian death. Ivar would have made you suffer.' I smile at the idea of it.

'Perhaps I deserve it. Only God knows.'

Congenial now, we both laugh as I make my way outside. I back down the steps and onto the stone courtyard. By the enormous gates, a horse stands tethered by a stable boy. The few remaining guards hover nearby.

'Give my son, Hvitserk. And I will let you leave.'

'Will you?' I point the sword blade up to the ramparts where I've already sighted one archer. 'It doesn't look that way to me.'

Alfred licks his lips. The closer to the horse we get, the more desperate he looks.

'Give me the boy.'

'I can't do that, and we both know it.'

'Regardless of what you do, Althel- Hvitserk, I will come after you, and I will kill you.'

'I'd like to see you try. One on one, you and I are not equal.'

'It wouldn't be me alone. I have an army. Could you fight them all, son of Ragnar?'

As I reach the horse, the stable boy drops the reigns and bolts in terror to a nearby outbuilding. In a last-ditch attempt to stop me, Alfred begs for his son.

'Give him to me now, and I'll let you go in peace.'

I sneer. 'If only I could believe you. When I find my wife and unborn child, your son will be returned to you.'

'Alive?'

I mount the house with ease, even though the passenger in my left arm wriggles against my tight grasp. 'One way or another. Be merry on the Lord's day, Alfred! It will be your last,' I say with mirth.

With the King of Wessex's protests loud in my ears, I spur the horse away from the Villa, holding Prince Edward high on my shoulder as a warning to the Saxons.

Finally, I am free. I head towards the river to find my wife.


End file.
